


Love of my Life (Don't Take Him From Me)

by GobsKnobs



Series: Love of my Life (Don't Take Him From Me) Collection [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Hates Himself, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier | Dandelion Are Soulmates, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pre-Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), geralt can have a little bit of soft touch. as a treat, i love my boy ok trust me for now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23239693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GobsKnobs/pseuds/GobsKnobs
Summary: The blackened, coiling words on his arm glare at him almost accusingly, he feels immense guilt at the poor soul that fate, that ever cruel mistress, has chosen to be bound to him. As if anyone could ever stomach being eternally bound to a filthy witcher of all things. Geralt thinks of the disgusted and angry faces of the people from Blaviken, how their stones and harsh words had cut into him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Love of my Life (Don't Take Him From Me) Collection [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670911
Comments: 18
Kudos: 642





	Love of my Life (Don't Take Him From Me)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever soulmate fanfiction ive written, it has taken over like,, a month to write and was just barely beta read, i guess grammarly counts?? but these boys are so stupid. catch me writing fanfiction because of the carona break lmao.

Searing pain wrenches the witcher from his rest, startling awake and immediately

fumbling for his silver blade, eyes scanning the dim light of the wooded campsite.

Roach seems to be resting against a tree, right where he left her. The mare only slightly more awake now, sensing her master’s distress and pain she whinnies softly, the sound only just registering to Geralt.

_No bandits, no rogue monsters, no immediate danger._ The witcher thinks to himself. _It’s alright, right?_

But still this _pain_ in his arm.

Geralt lifts his sleeve and hisses as he watches a soul mark appear, starting at the left side of his wrist and curling down towards the crook of his elbow are the words, “Right, see you around, Geralt” In coiling cursive handwriting. 

“Fuck,” he snarls low, “this shit can _not_ be happening.” 

Geralt lays back on his bedroll and attempts to go back to sleep, his mind troubled with twisting visions of a mountainside and scarlet garments. 

He does not get rest that night although he needs it, especially if he intends to fell a damned kikimora. 

.

Blaviken was a fucking mess. Understatement, Geralt _knows that_ yet it’s still fucking true. Why didn’t Renfri listen to him when he told her to run that night when she found him in the woods. Foolish, _idiotic_ girl. Now she is dead, and it is _all his damn fault_ , he never should have gotten involved with humans, as Vesemir told him. 

Stupid girl, and _stupid Geralt_ for letting his weak heart grow soft for her. Geralt spends his first night away from Blaviken staring at his arms. 

Still feeling the warmth of her blood on his skin, knowing that her life was seeping out of her so easily, at his hand no less. And the itch as it dried and flaked off of him.

Bruises and cuts closing and fade away slowly before him. If only Renfri had been so lucky to have the ~~curse~~ blessing of faster healing. 

The blackened, coiling words on his arm glare at him almost accusingly, he feels immense guilt at the poor soul that fate, that ever cruel mistress, has chosen to be bound to him. As if anyone could ever stomach being eternally bound to a _filthy witcher_ of all things. Geralt thinks of the disgusted and angry faces of the people from Blaviken, how their stones and harsh words had cut into him. 

~~And how right they were, Geralt was a monster.~~

He has the irrational thought to cut the words from his flesh. If anything, to free whichever poor soul fate had decided to choose for him.

_As if it would be that easy._ He thinks darkly, glaring at the offending mark on his arm. 

He turns back to the fire and rubs at his wrist, gently absentminded, as he lets his guilty thoughts consume him. 

Restless thoughts find him again that night, he stares into the flames as they sputter out and die in the early morning light, he still sits awake as the birds sing their morning songs.

* * *

  
  
  


18 years later, and the bloody moniker of ‘Butcher of Blaviken’ follows Geralt like a plague, mothers drag their children inside doors even quicker than before as they realize who he is, only the truly desperate speak directly to him, begging him to seek out the monsters that plague their towns. 

_Yet they still spit in my path after I help._ He reminds himself harshly. 

Geralt’s wandering leads him towards the small farming village of Posada, the tavern filled with a young bard’s warbling tenor voice, singing about, of all things, monsters, and abortions. Possibly not the best topics to be singing in such an establishment Geralt thinks but to each their own.

Situating himself in the far corner of the tavern, he observes the bards movement as a barmaid absolutely reeking with her palpable fear of him, gives him a tankard of ale.

The bard’s practiced fingers dance along the neck of his lute, obviously talented, but young. 

Predictably, the bard gets booed and has stale bread loaves thrown at him, a free meal the lucky bastard. 

Geralt sighs softly into his sour ale as he notices the bard’s approach.

“I love how you just, sit in the corner and _brood,”_ the musician says, leaning on the post behind him, 

“I’m here to drink alone,” Geralt growls.

“Good, yeah, good,” The bard mumbles, “No one else hesitated to comment on the quality of my performance, except… for you, come on.” He moves to plop himself down across from the witcher. Geralt sighs softly. He wanted to be alone, and he _meant it_ damn it. 

“C’mon, wouldn’t want to keep a man with… bread in his pants waiting” The bard continues unsure, making an awkward motion toward his trousers, “You must have some review for me, three words or less.”

Geralt stares blankly at the young man before sighing and grabbing his mug.

“They don’t exist.” He takes a drink and sets the mug down with a _thunk!_

“What don’t exist?” the bard furrows his brow slightly  
  
“The creatures in your song. They aren’t real” Geralt grunts, slumping back into his chair. 

“And how would you know?” the bard asks. Geralt remains silent, staring the bard down.

Realization dawns on the young man as he takes in the witcher’s appearance.

“Oh, fun. White hair… big, old loner, two very… very scary looking swords” The bard trails off slightly as Geralt moves to get up leaving some coin on the table, 

  
“I know who you are,” the young minstrel continues. Geralt grabs his swords and is halfway across the tavern before the bard scrambles to walk after him, grasping a pillar and leaning dramatically. 

Oh, gods.

“You’re the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia,” he says “Called it.” the tavern grows eerily silent, feeling eyes on him, Geralt stops before the door. He hears footsteps behind him and readies for something to be thrown, but what he isn’t as ready for is,

“A job I’ve got for ya. I beg you” Geralt turns, taking in the appearance of a young farmhand. “A devil- he’s been stealing all our grain. In advance, I’ll pay you. A hundred ducat.”

Geralt inhales, thinking for a moment, over a hundred creatures could match the catch-all description of ‘a devil’. 

“One-fifty.” He says, the farmhand shifts slightly on his feet before handing over his whole coinpurse.

“I’ve no doubt you’ll come through,” He holding the coinpurse out towards the witcher, “You take no prisoners. So I hear.”  
  
Geralt grunts and takes the coins, leaving the tavern and the eyes behind him. 

* * *

Halfway up the hill towards the farms, Geralt hears panting and running footsteps. Sighing slightly, already knowing who it is. 

“Ah. Need a hand?” The minstrel asks, “I’ve got two. One for each of the- uh- devil’s horns” 

“Go away” Geralt snarls. 

“I won’t be but silent back-up,” the bard is silent for all of three seconds before continuing, “look- I heard your note, and, yes, you’re right, maybe real adventures would make better stories. And you, sir, smell chock-full of them.”  
  


Wait- smell? What the fuck is the minstrel on about?

“Amongst other things. I mean, what is that? Is that onion?” he continues to chatter, “It doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, you smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heartbreak.”

“It’s onion.” Geralt grunts. 

“Right, yeah. Yeah. Ooh! I could be your barker, spreading the tales of Geralt of Rivia, the-the Butcher of Blaviken.”  
  
Geralt had reached his limit. He looks at Roach in slight disbelief, he drops her reigns and motions the bard forward. “Come here.”   
  
“Ye-” The end of whatever the bard was trying to say cut off by a sucker-punch to the balls from Geralt. The bard hits the dirt path, his lute slipping off of his shoulder with a musical _twang!_ As he struggles to get his breath back. Grasping the mares reigns again, Geralt continues walking.

“Come on, Roach” The mare nickers with a swish of her tail as they make their way again towards the farmlands.

The bard, of course, soon picks himself up and follows after them, wisely keeping his mouth shut. If Geralt notices the slight limp in the young man’s step, he chooses not to comment ~~or feel slightly guilty~~. 

Twenty minutes later, and further down the other side of the hill, the bard resumes his chattering. 

“Reading between the lines, and the- um- _gut-punches_ , chum, I’d say you have got a bit of a… an image problem.” He adjusts his lute, “were I to join you on this… Feat to defeat the devil of Posada, I could relieve you of that title. All the north would be too busy singing the tales of… Geralt of Rivia, the-the White Wolf or-or something.” 

“Butcher is right.” Geralt says, noncommittally, hoping to end this conversation before it starts. He can feel the start of a headache with the young man’s incessant yapping. 

They continue to walk for a while, the bard on foot with Geralt on Roach’s back, his eyes roving over the tall grasses and rocky paths.

“Uh- Mind if I hop up there with you? ‘S just I’m not wearing the right footwear and-”   
  
“Don’t touch Roach” Geralt growls.

“Yeah, right, yeah.” the bard slaps his hands down to his sides tapping slightly on his thighs as he continues to walk. Geralt dismounts and ties the mare to a scraggly tree, smelling something suspicious up ahead between two rock formations. 

“The elves called this Dol Blathanna before bequeathing it to the humans and… retreating into their golden palaces in the mountains. There I go again, just… delivering exposition.” 

Geralt leaves the ever-prattling bard to his one-sided conversation of golden palaces and expositions, as he walks towards the grassy rock formations.

“Geralt? Wh-where are you going?” The bard whines slightly, “ Geralt, don’t leave me.”

Fully intending to, he sneaks around the corner of rock and scans the area, not seeing anything much from his vantage point, Geralt continues further into the craggy clearing. If only his search could be quieter, he has almost certainly lost the element of surprise. 

“Hellooo?” the minstrel sing-songs, “What are we looking for again?”  
  
“Blessed silence.” Geralt growls quietly, trying to maintain at least a little bit of stealth. 

“Yeah. Don’t really go in for that” 

Geralt had figured as much, considering the amount of damned chattering the young musician had been carrying on with for damn near a half hour. 

“Have you ever hunted a devil before, Geralt?”  
  
“Devils don’t exist.”   
  
“Right,” The bard whispers, “obviously, then uh- then what are we doing?” 

“Sometimes there are monsters, sometimes there’s money. Rarely both. That’s the life.” he approaches a bush, eyes still scanning for signs of the, poorly described, monster he’s supposed to kill. 

He sees the glint of a slingshot before hearing the projectile sing across the clearing, hitting him in his forehead.

“Shit!” he growls in pain. The stupid bard still within hitting range and just standing there, looking around, like a damn _fool_. 

“Act two begins!” He raises his arms and slaps them down with a grin on his face, “What was that? Looks like a tiny cannonball from a…” he trails off as he notices something walking through the bushes and tall grass. 

“Oh my gosh. It _is_ a devil,” The ‘devil’ stands from its crouch, Geralt just watching quietly, wiping the blood from his forehead with a slight grimace. 

“I have to see this magical, this mythical-” the bard gets cut off as another projectile flies and knocks the bard unconscious. And still, Geralt watches as the bard hits the ground, almost finding it funny. Carefully moving the brush aside, Geralt tries to find where the creature could have shot them from. 

“Leave me be!” the creature shouts before fucking _headbutting Geralt,_ knocking him flat on his ass a few feet away, he jumps back to his feet with a snarl on his face as he slowly advances on the creature. 

“You talk,” he growls. The creature- Sylvan?- charges again with a shout, but Geralt is ready, he uses the sylvan’s momentum and tosses him to the ground, quickly pinning it down with his body weight, one arm pinned across its chest. 

“Of course I talk!” it struggles under Geralt.

“What happened with you? Your mother fuck a goat?” 

“I am Torque the Sylvan, a rare and intelligent creature!” it struggles under Geralt’s weight crushing it.   
  
“You're just a dick.” Geralt shifts his gaze as he thinks quickly with a grin, “With balls.” _Smooth, Geralt._

“Balls I got from humans, who left our food filled with iron meant to poison me!” The sylvan grabs a handful of Geralt’s hair and yanks it out of his head, he snarls in pain, baring his teeth at the ‘rare and intelligent’ creature.

“Did your mother fuck a snowman?” Oh, he _certainly_ hasn’t heard that one before. Geralt moves his arm back and punches the creature, breaking its goat-like nose. 

“You are intelligent, I’ll give you that. So I won’t kill you, but you can’t stay here.” Geralt leans his weight off of the sylvan’s chest, letting it sit up slightly. 

“Neither can you.” Geralt’s brows furrow in confusion, hearing quickly approaching footsteps, he turns swiftly, a sharp blow hits his head, then everything fades into darkness.

* * *

  
  


Geralt startles awake, feeling restraints around his middle he starts to struggle with a slowly building snarl. He feels a body behind him, the scent is familiar, Lavender and chamomile. Because of Geralt, that damned _bard_ had gone and gotten captured as well. _Fuck_. 

The young man in question seems to already have been awake, Geralt can feel him wriggling at his back, head tipping so far backward Geralt can feel it against the base of his own. 

“This is the part, where we escape..!” he says

“This is the part, where they _kill_ us!” Geralt snarls through grit teeth, still trying to snap the restraints. 

“Who’s they?” the bard questions, obviously not understanding the _deadly nature_ of the situation. Geralt grows more agitated, but his emotions wither when he watches a female elf charge into the room and kick the minstrel in the head, stunning him temporarily. 

The elf spits something at the both of them in her native tongue, Geralt’s elder being rusty at best and essentially non-existent at worst. Geralt groans in pain when the elf woman kicks Geralt’s face, “Elves.”

“Oi, that’s my lute. Give that back. Quick, Geralt, do your-your witchering-”  
  
“Shut up!” Geralt roars, the elf seems to almost smirk.

The elf woman says another sentence in Elder, the minstrel seems to almost perk up, “my Elder speech is _rough_ I only got part of that.”   
  
The elf woman stops prowling around them and glares at the both of them, and replies in perfect common, “Humans, shut, up.” the bard shifts his weight again and sighs, responding in elder to the woman.

“Do you want to die right now,” she says curtly.

“As opposed to later?” Geralt growls.

A kick, to the bard’s chest.

“No! Not the lu-” He gets cut off as the blow lands.

“Leave off!” The witcher roars, “He’s just a bard.”  
  
A punch to Geralt’s face.

“You don’t deserve the air you breathe,” The bard says.

Another punch to the witcher.

“Everything you touch you destroy,” The elf shouts, landing a knee to Geralt’s eye as the other elf in the room snaps the minstrel’s instrument. Geralt groans in pain.

“You hide in your golden palaces. You beat a bound man too scared to even look him in the eye!” The bard roars, body practically vibrating with raw emotion. 

“You like my golden palace? Hmm?” she walks towards Geralt, grabbing his chin roughly and burrowing her nails into his flesh, forcing him to look up into her eyes. “Does it live up to the tales you, humans-” She's cut off after Geralt headbutts her on the nose. 

  
  


The minstrel laughs mockingly, “Yeah, take that pointy.” the elf starts to cough violently, even though Geralt certainly didn’t hit her with his full strength, let alone anywhere near her chest. “Wait, what’s wrong with her?” the bard shifting from mocking, to concerned in a surprisingly short amount of time.

Another figure storms into the room, wearing a patchwork robe with the sylvan from before trailing after them., “She’s sick.” they bend down to assist the fallen elf.

“Who’s that?”  
  
“He’s Filavandrel, king of the Elves.” The sylvan says. 

“Not a king. Not by choice.” The king’s eyes rove over them disapprovingly and with authority. Geralt rolls his eyes and groans internally as realization dawns, “You were stealing for them,” The witcher says, annoyed.

“I felt for them,” Torque says, turning towards Geralt, “They were forced out of Dol Blathanna-”  
  
“Forced out? No-no, they chose-” the minstrel is cut off.   
  
“Do you know anyone that would choose to leave their home? To starve?” The king roars, “To have a Sylvan steal for them?” Both the king and the sylvan turn back towards the elf woman, the king with his hands on her arms and Torque hovering over her face and arms. “Torvuiel, no one was supposed to get hurt.”

“What’s two humans in the ground, when countless elves have died?” She mutters.

“ _One_ human.” Geralt snarls, “And you can let him go.” 

“Then Posada will learn that we’ve been stealing.” King Filavandrel strides over to both of them and stands in front of Geralt, glaring at him. “They will attack us. Many will die…on both sides.” Geralt is reminded of Blaviken, of the young woman lay dying in his arms, and the chilling words that she had said to him-

“The lesser evil.” The witcher says, quoting the twisted sorcerer in his enchanted tower, “No matter what you choose, you’ll come out _bloody_ and hating yourself. Trust me” The king shifts his weight to the other leg, lip lifted in a small sneer.

“That’s the problem.” The king sits, wrapping his roughspun cloak around himself. “I can’t. This is necessary.” the elf shifts into a kneel. 

“I understand,” The witcher says softly, “As long as you understand… that it won’t be long before you follow me in death.” 

“Yes, because they pushed us from viable soil. Even chaos is polluted. Synthetically enhanced so humans can make magic.” 

“Chaos is the same as it’s always been. Humans just adapted better.” Geralt says.

“You say adapt, and I say destroy.”  
  
“You are choosing to starve,” Geralt says, glaring. “You’re cutting off your ear to spite your face.” 

The elf works his jaw, “You think this is about pride? My elders worked with humans, and got robbed for all they had.” he tilts his head back slightly. “And when they fought back, they were _slaughtered_.” Another sneer flashes across the king’s face, his eyes growing haunted. “The ‘Great Cleansing’ humans call it. I called digging a mass grave for everyone I loved.” 

Geralt’s heart sinks, remembering Kaer Morhen and all the other boys who died to the mutations that turned him into the witcher he is today. “And now the humans proudly watch these very fields grow… Our babies _fertilizer_ for their grain.”

The bard’s scent sours in guilt, the change causing the wolfish beast within Geralt to snap to attention, making him grow the urge to protect the young man.

“I don’t wish to bury anyone else,” The king continues sadly, “I was once Filavandrel of the Silver Towers, now I’m Filavandrel of the Edge of the World. If I bring my people down from these mountains, it would mean bowing to human sovereignty. They’ll make slaves of us, pariahs of our children.”

Geralt lowers his eyes for a moment, before returning the king’s gaze, “Then go, somewhere, else. Rebuild. Get strong again. Show the humans, that you are _more_ than they fear you to be.” He stares purposely at the king, eyes pleading, not wishing further harm to his people from the hands of humans.

“Like you, witcher?” 

“I have learned to live with them.” Geralt tilts his head minutely, “So that I may live.”  
  
The female elf swiftly stands and stares pleadingly at Filavandrel, “Please, my king. There are others, a new generation. Evellien who wish to _fight!_ Let us take back what’s ours. Starting now.” The king rises and slowly removes a small sword from his cloak.

“Wait-”  
  
“Torque, stand aside.” the king shoves the sylvan away.

“The witcher could have killed me,” Torque continues, “But he didn’t. He’s different. Like us.” The sylvan turns his head towards his king but gets shoved away harder. Filavandrel stares down calculatingly at the witcher, blade still in hand. 

“If you must kill me,” Geralt stares deep into the elf’s eyes, expression firm, “I am ready. But the sylvan’s right. Don’t call me human.” His eyes slip closed, awaiting the final blow from the elf king’s blade, but not expecting the feeling of the bond holding the bard and him together to be cut away. 

* * *

  
  


Geralt and the bard were soon released, the broken lute being replaced by Filavandrel’s own, made of beautiful dark wood and accents of what looked like gold. The bard looked extremely grateful to the elf king as it was handed over, muttering a soft and disbelieving, 

“Thank you.” 

Filavandrel nods to the bard then Geralt in turn, holding eye contact with the witcher, searching for something in his golden gaze. He turns, seemingly satisfied with what he’d found, and motions for one of the elves to give Roach to the witcher. The rest of the elves retreat back inside their rocky home, leaving Geralt and the young bard alone. 

“Well, that was… certainly something,” The bard says as Geralt swings up onto Roach’s saddle, setting off down the road back towards Posada, hoping to drop the bard back off and leave to another town or quiet clearing for the night. 

“Hmm.” the witcher grunts, rubbing under his eye softly.

The bard, having other plans for himself apparently, continues to walk with Geralt, following him from Posada, leaving his side only to grab his pack and bedroll, ( _“Geralt! Don’t leave me! I can’t be such a terrible companion, can I?”_ ), and beyond, even staying with him to the grassy clearing the witcher had found. 

The young minstrel- Jaskier, he tells Geralt -settles himself down and sets out his bedroll, sitting with his legs folded under him and the new lute settled over his lap. Geralt just looks to Jaskier, then to Roach and shrugs lightly. If he wishes to stay, he may as well be useful, “I’m going hunting. Have a fire started when I’m back,” he says. Jaskier just nods and watches as the witcher grabs his steel sword and disappears into the forest. Geralt closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, letting his senses guide him towards their dinner. 

Rabbit, not large enough, slightly sick.

Wolves, predators, he steers clear away. 

Ah, a deer. Perfect. 

Geralt sneaks up on his prey, staying very silent, not even a breeze dares to give his position away as he makes the death-giving blow to the animal. He whispers his thanks as the animal fades away, thanking it for its sacrifice, thanking it for its pelts and meat. 

He skins the animal and quarters it, returning to camp to, surprisingly, find it set up, a small fire with enough lumber for the night in the center with their bedrolls on either side of the fire. Geralt hums his thanks and sets to bulk up the fire and placing the meat to cook. 

Jaskier looks up and opens his mouth to speak, but seeing the witchers state, covered in blood as he is, the words die on his tongue, turning into a confused, 

“Uh… are you alright, Geralt? You’re sort of… um. Covered in blood?”

“Hmm.” The witcher replies focused on cooking the meat and pointedly ignoring the tingling in his arm and the eyes on his back from the mouthy minstrel. 

Jaskier’s scent tinges with minor concern, he grabs his waterskin and a strip of cloth as he cautiously approaches Geralt, Telegraphing his every move. 

“Here, I’m not sure if there’s a river nearby, but you can use these to at least clean off your… um… your face-or whatever.” The witcher turns and is yet again in awe of the young bard, awed that he would care about him enough to ask if he was alright, awed that Jaskier would offer up his only waterskin to Geralt. 

He murmurs a thank you and wets the cloth, cleaning up the viscera from his arms, trying his best to hide his soul mark. Even though Jaskier cares enough to sacrifice his water and to ask about Geralt’s well being, doesn’t mean he won’t act with rage and disgust when he sees that- 

A hand over his own stops his spiraling thoughts

“Geralt, I think that arm is clean dear friend,” Jaskier gently moves his hand, Grabbing the cloth and waterskin, wringing the cloth out and putting more water on as he wipes Geralt’s cheek gently. Geralt can do nothing but rub his arm and stare in utter disbelief at this bard, this _human,_ that would voluntarily touch a witcher, that can pick up on his emotions so easily. It is utterly baffling to him that Jaskier continues to surprise him. 

“There we are! Good as new,” Jaskier says, chipper as ever as he wrings out the cloth one final time before setting it on a rock to dry and places his waterskin in his pack, “Do you think the venison is done?” he asks, looking idly over his shoulder at Geralt. 

The witcher snaps out of his haze and mumbles, “Shit” as he remembers to turn the meat, one side more cooked than the other. He cuts off a strip and offers it out to Jaskier, a silent thank you to the bafflingly kind bard.

**Author's Note:**

> ok listen. LISTEN. you'll be fed soon lads and lasses, but im going to try and update this series before my birthday in two days. this series is like a little early birthday gift to myself.


End file.
